Memories of You
by pkabyssinian1990
Summary: So, I was missing Yohji from my muse line up and forced this bit o' post Gluhen Yohji out of myself. It's late, it's dark, Yohji is feeling contemplative. His faulty memories won't let him sleep, but they aren't telling him anything either.


Title: Memories of You

Rating: PG for mild swearing.

Beta'd: Just by me, myself, and I. (That means no.)

Notes: This came from and older idea that had. This was originally supposed to be a follow up to Guilty Pleasures but now it's not. Obviously, this is post-Gluhen. This came about because I wanted to write Yohji again, I've been thinking about him but his 'voice' has been eluding me.

Yeah… very little boy love in this. Blink and you'll miss it.

* * *

Yohji woke, shivering and in a cold sweat. The room was warm, stuffy even, and there was another warm presence curled around his side. One of her long legs was thrown carelessly across his hips, pinning him to the bed which helped to feed his night terrors. For a few moments his fear was chased away by the sure knowledge that he would be scolded if a woman was found in his room.

_Who is going to yell at me for having my soon-to-be wife with me?_ he wondered as the alien feeling dissipating as quickly as it had come. Why weren't these moments of inappropriateness fading? The doctors had agreed that the episodes would disappear or they would unlock his hidden memories.

At least he hadn't woken Asuka; she tried so hard to keep him upbeat about his amnesia. It was getting harder and harder to keep Yohji from becoming morose about his condition. Plus, facing Asuka in the dead of night distressed him in unfathomable ways. Sometimes her caring, sweet face brought out a violent side that scared Yohji.

Not that he had ever acted on any of the rages that had ridden him through the dark nights, but there were times when the clear mental image of his hands locked around her throat like great, bloated spiders was too real. Yohji was afraid it would be too easy to give into his dark fantasy. Even worse, though, were the dreams he had. Bad enough to scream himself awake from a dream of Asuka being shot as he watched helplessly, he still hadn't told her about that particular nightmare. But the worst one was the dream where he watched as a detached outsider as he garroted his fiancée on a thin silver wire. A man shouldn't think of these things, certainly not about the woman he was planning on marrying.

His right hand, free from Asuka's warm weight, drifted over to his left wrist and he growled in frustration. Too often he found his hand there, many times fingering the face of the heavy watch he wore. What was he looking for? Now, as always, his mind drew a blank.

How was it that his body could remember habits that his mind had obliterated? The doctors and specialists felt that this was a good sign, proof that his damaged brain hadn't erased all of his life. However, to Yohji's inexpert eye, it seemed that the so-called specialists weren't really trying to uncover his memories. He was to snort nimodipine nasal spray four times a day and suck on the crappy vanilla-tasting lozenges of methylcobalamin up to five times daily. Yet neither drug had helped to spark so much as a memory.

Asuka was becoming frustrated with his unwilling to talk about the problem. _Hey, what problem? I can't remember any problem…_ he'd tell her with a smile and wink, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. Her face would shutter completely and her lips compress into a thin line of distaste whenever he pulled out that damn sword, too. It was the only link he had to his past, what did she want him to do… forget that, too?

Yohji chastised himself for that unfair thought; it wasn't Asuka's fault his head was all fucked up. As the eternal optimist that he was, Yohji was certain that Asuka's doctors and trained specialists were all full of shit. A man just didn't wake up one day and lose everything about himself. Sure, sure, he'd been in a coma for almost a month but there was no sign as to what had put him there. His right leg had been broken and there had been several scrapes and contusions, but nothing that would indicate head trauma. Certainly the network of old scars (several looked like bullet wounds) that criss-crossed his body didn't help matters. Who had he been to abuse his body so?

Asuka shifted in her sleep and buried her nose in deeper into his neck, his hair was almost long enough to brush against her sleeping brow. The brassy blond color was almost all gone, leaving a darker honey tinged brown behind. Just why his hair had been dyed and cruelly chopped was another mystery that would never be solved, just like the dark red cross that had been painted across his chest.

Cross… cross… something about that word rung in his defective head. Perhaps he had done work for the church? But what kind of church would have him earning such scars as badges? None that he knew of. And why, on the really bad nights, would he wake with another woman's name on his lips. One that also began with an 'A', but much shorter. Aya. As far as he knew, most churches frowned on men and women conjugating together. Yohji was aware that he had a rather strong sex drive, something often dismayed Asuka.

Quicker than a thought a flash of red intruded on Yohji's vision. Red hair? Aya had red hair. Of that Yohji was almost sure. He was also getting the feeling that Aya was a man, not a woman. Why would he have a woman's name? In his excitement Yohji sat up, disturbing Asuka who pouted briefly before succumbing to sleep again.

Padding out of the bedroom, he quietly flicked on the hall light and slipped into his study. Their ancient behemoth of a computer was there and he switched it on, waiting as it hummed to life. He had never been good at writing things out long hand, he much preferred typing. So, when he could, he kept a record of any intuitive flashes that might come to him. They weren't as hidden as he would have liked to have made them, but from whom did he need to keep it from? Asuka? She refused to touch the computer, saying she had enough of them at work.

Calling up the word processing program he quickly typed up what he could intuit about Aya. Red hair. Male. So few words, yet looking at their starkness against the white screen he had another mental leap and added 'flowers' to the list. He wasn't sure why, or even what it meant. He wanted to use the internet, but the noise from the dial-up _would_ wake Asuka and he didn't want to raise her hopes yet. This wasn't exactly a memory, just the (and his mind laughed at irony) the memory of a memory. It was a mere shadow of an idea, one that he was afraid that he would forget in the bright light of morning.

Tomorrow he would have to remember to try to cross-reference the name Aya with any local flower shop owners, or perhaps it was one of the rare male masters of the art of ikebana. Yohji didn't really believe that he would find anything; his past seemed to be as elusive as his locked memories.

With careless grace he paced to the living room of their small apartment. Asuka was planning on renting a larger townhouse once they were married. A hollow laugh bubbled in Yohji's throat and died there. For some reason the idea of him settling down always amused him. Once again, he had to wonder what type of man he'd been before the Accident. In the depths of his mind he often referred to his life as pre-A and post-A.

As he stalked around the small room, skillfully avoiding the couch and the low coffee table, Yohji pined for a cigarette. That was the only thing he was certain of pre-A, he had been a smoker. Asuka refused to allow him to start again; she claimed that the mere scent of cigarette smoke made her nauseous. But there were times, mainly in the dead of night, that he longed for something to do with his hands and he missed the harsh, scratchy feeling of smoke entering his lungs.

Aya. Why was the name so damn important to him? Thinking of what he knew… just the name and the idea of scarlet hair… it made his stomach constrict. But, as far as Yohji knew, he liked women. Right? The very idea of lust tightening his lower belly over a man was both unsettling and somehow amusing. Like the shadow of his former self was trying to break through.

Checking, briefly, to make sure that sweet Asuka was still sleeping Yohji slipped the katana out of its hiding place in the hall closet. Asuka had demanded, her voice and eyes flashing with repressed anger, that he get rid of 'that dirty thing'. It was his only link to his past, he had been found with the sword and Yohji was determined to keep it. He hated deceiving Asuka and was further disturbed at how easy it was for him to keep secrets from her. He felt worse because it was the only thing that she had ever asked of him.

He pulled the slightly curved blade from its lacquered sheath; the bluish-silver metal caught the faint moonlight so that it almost glowed. With practiced eyes Yohji looked up and down the length of the blade. The tsuba, the metal cross guard, was strangely unornamented and lacking anything that might tie it to its owner and there were no horimono, no signature, kanji, or engravings, on the blade either. Yohji was certain that if he were to pry off the hilt of the katana that there would be a hint there to its origin imprinted into the tang of the sword.

He swung the sword experimentally, his both of his hands gripping the handle tightly. No, it didn't feel natural holding the weapon like that. He switched to a one-handed stance, but that also felt forced and unnatural. So, he was fairly certain that the weapon wasn't his. Another flash behind his eyes and he saw a lean, masculine form performing a series of katas while holding the sword. Aya. This was Aya's sword.

Yohji slipped the sword back into its sheath and hid it again. Then he returned to the computer and added 'sword' to his list on Aya. Again, that sharp pang of desire roiled through him. For a moment it was so strong that his hands shook. He wanted Aya, wanted the other man with a bone searing need.

No, he had Asuka now. She had proposed to him and he had accepted. He was even going to take her last name. He loved Asuka. Didn't he? For a moment, Yohji was uncertain; there was nothing he could really bring to her. No family, no money, no assurances. Nothing but the intangible - his love and vague promises for the future. Her father was going to give him a job, he'd make good money and Asuka made a tidy income from being a nurse. Their lives wouldn't be easy, but it wouldn't be fraught with financial hardships either.

Wrestling with his inner turmoil, Yohji opened his file again. His finger hovered over the keyboard for a small eternity. Perhaps the doctors were right; his memory would come back with time. He shouldn't stress himself so. Looking at the scars he carried on his body, the waves of violence that sometimes overtook him, his ability to sneak and hide… perhaps it would be better if he didn't remember his past.

Here was an opportunity that many dreamed of having. Yohji was in the unique state that he could start over, begin again. This was a rebirth of sorts. He could do anything with the rest of his life, anything at all.

The hovering finger stabbed at a key, erasing the file. Aya was effectively forgotten, either his mind would recover or it wouldn't. Yohji was making a conscious decision to not worry about it any more. The nightmares would fade with time, the doctors and councilors all agreed on that. Once that happened Yohji could work on having a perfect life with Asuka. He would be a perfect husband.

Aya would be banished to the back of the closet with his katana. Either fate or memory would complete the cycle, but Yohji was determined to leave it behind him. That's where the past belonged anyway. Violet eyes, no doubt Aya's, watched Yohji from the depths of his mind, he could see them as clear as day.

Tired from his own internal battle Yohji made his way back to the wide bed where Asuka had spread out. He pushed her over and smiled as she wrapped her arms around him. Yes, this was where he belonged. Half remembered visions of cold purple eyes did nothing to warm a man late a night. This, this was real. And it was his to make the best of, if he could.


End file.
